


It’ll be okay, cuz I’ll stay till you come down

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Reader-Insert, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:36:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: the reader finds a sad, drunk steve in the bathroom at a party. comfort ensues(takes place during that party during s2. yall know the one.)





	It’ll be okay, cuz I’ll stay till you come down

Finding an open bathroom in a house party is on the level of taking an exam with a blindfold - pretty much impossible. The house - you’re not sure who’s it is, to be quite honest - has five bathrooms, and at your last count, four were being used as makeshift bedrooms with couples locked inside.

You approached the last bathroom, its door shut, light bleeding through the crack at the bottom. The hallway, upstairs and toward the back of the house, was relatively quiet. Most of the party’s occupants were in the kitchen, on the ‘dance floor,’ or tucked into a bed or bathroom. Even so, the music filtered up, muffled by the horrid green wool carpeting, and the body heat was impossible to escape.

The first knock on the bathroom door went unanswered, though you knew someone was inside. You knocked again, harder, nearly jumping up and down due to discomfort. You’d downed three cups in the last half hour, and were fairly sure you’d pee your pants if you didn’t get into that bathroom _now_.

“Hello? I know someone’s in there!” You said, banging on the door.

“Occupied!” A familiar voice retorted. You couldn’t quite place it, and didn’t care enough to.

“Are you alone?”

“What? Yeah,” the boy said.

“Are you puking?”

A moment’s hesitation before, “No!”

Seeing as the occupant was both alone and not projectile vomiting, you tugged a bobby pin out of your hair and knelt in front of the door. You were tipsy enough not to care that the person inside was hogging the bathroom, but not sober enough to make picking the lock easy.

After a long minute of messing with it, the lock clicked and you let out a triumphant “yes!” before standing and turning the knob. You stepped into the bathroom and, initially, couldn’t locate the voice you’d heard. Empty red solos and beer cans were scattered along the counter with crushed pretzels, the entire room reeking of alcohol.

“Are you_ kidding me_?” Your gaze fell to the figure in the bathtub, long legs stretched over the edge of the tub. Steve Harrington. In a goofy Risky Business getup. Obviously as tipsy as you were, a half-empty vodka bottle dangling from one hand.

“How did you even-”

“Look, I just need to pee,” you said, “and I’ll get out.”

“Did you just pick the lock?” He asked, brows arched. You crossed your arms and used a foot to nudge the door shut behind you, relocking it.

“Yep.”

“How the _hell_-”

You held up the bobby pin for a moment before putting it back in your hair and crossed the small bathroom to the tub, staring down at Steve.

“Can I _please_ pee?” You asked, throwing in a pout in the hopes of convincing him. He narrowed his eyes for a beat, but relented, tipping his head back against the tub wall and waving a hand.

“Thank you,” you said, and tugged the shower curtain across, hiding him from your view. The toilet was right beside the tub, and you struggled with your belt for a moment before just ripping it off, snapping the belt loops on your jeans.

“Shit,” you muttered.

“Did you fall in?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’m _drowning_.”

“I’m just checking!”

“Shut up,” you said, “I can’t do it with you listening.”

“How am I supposed to _not_ listen?”

“I don’t know. Sing, or something.”

“What am I supposed to sing?”

“I don’t know,” you retorted, “_I’m_ not the one who has to sing.”

“I’m _not_ gonna sing.”

“Then fucking…hum. Just do _something_.”

After a moment’s pause, he started to hum Take On Me, horrible and off-key; you resisted the urge to giggle. He stopped after you washed your hands, and you leaned against the counter. Once the water turned off, he tugged the shower curtain back open.

“Thanks,” you said.

“What happened to your…” he trailed off, nodding at the belt abandoned on the tile and your broken belt loops.

“Not my night,” you said with a shrug. Steve brought the bottle up to his lips and took a long swing before saying, “Yeah, me neither.”

He hadn’t said anything that gave you permission to stay, but you’d lost interest in the throng of drunk toddlers roaming around the house. You climbed into the tub beside him, both your legs hanging out, and he handed you the bottle without a word.

You took a drag and winced, pushing the burn down to your stomach where it turned warm and joined everything else you’d shot back tonight. Wiping a hand across your mouth, you set the bottle between the two of you.

“I know you,” Steve said. You looked over at him and arched a brow.

“Yeah,” you said, “history class for the last two years.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

He let out a breath and tugged off his sunglasses, chucking them across the bathroom where they fell.

“For being an asshole.”

Had it been anyone else speaking, you wouldn’t have argued with it. You weren’t a close friend of Steve Harrington’s, but you’d gone to school together long enough for you to know he wasn’t exactly the _nicest_. He’d earned his reputation for a reason.

Except, the reputation didn’t hold up to this seemingly broken boy in the bathtub.

“You’re not an asshole,” you said, meeting his gaze. He arched a brow, and you amended, “Okay, you’re not a _complete_ asshole. I saw you with Nancy; you seemed good to her.”

His lips puckered like he’d tasted something sour.

“She’d disagree with you.”

“Is that what all that was about? Downstairs?”

“You saw that?”

“She was fairly vocal after that drink ended up on her shirt.”

Steve closed his eyes, pulling his legs into the tub and drawing them to his chest, arms slung loosely around them, chin resting on his forearms.

“You wanna talk about it?” You asked.

He didn’t respond for so long you thought he wasn’t going to. He lifted his head and met your gaze, eyes sadder than you’d ever seen.

“I think she was right,” he said.

“About?”

He took a swig from the bottle and handed it to you; you sipped it and set it beside you.

“I guess I was…pretending. Like everything didn’t go to shit.”

“But it did?”

He nodded, letting out a breath, seeming to wilt.

“It did.”

“You can’t get over something by shoving it into the dark. Even if its easier that way.”

“It wasn’t even easy, you know?” He asked, brows pulling together, “I just didn’t know what else to do. Or how to fix it. So I just…shoved it away. But it came back.”

“The whole thing’s bullshit, honestly,” you said, an attempt at making him smile, but the words hit him like knives.

“_I’m_ bullshit,” he said, though you could tell the words weren’t _his_. But it didn’t matter where they’d come from, because he believed them.

“Look…I’m not gonna pretend I know what happened between you guys, or what happened with Barbara Holland. But if it’s eating you, you’ve gotta do something about it. Learn how to move on.”

“How do I do that?” He asked, eyes a mix of hope and loss, a constant battle in his head.

“Let yourself feel it.”

“Feel _what_?”

“Everything.”

He scoffed lightly, gaze shifting to the patterned wallpaper, but turned back when you nudged him with an elbow.

“I know I’m drunk, but the advice is still valid,” you said pointedly. His lips turned up in a lopsided smile.

“Maybe if I’d bothered to pay attention, we could have had this conversation sooner.”

“We’re having it now,” you said with a shrug.

He paused, walls dipping down for a moment, vulnerable and young-looking. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now, would an _asshole_ thank me?” You asked, arching a brow with a smile. He smirked and reached across you for the vodka bottle. Tipsy fingers tumbled against the glass, and the bottle started to tip. He lunged for it at the same time you did, and when you glanced in his direction, hands coming up to catch yourself, you ended up pressed against him.

His gaze flicked down to your mouth and back up, lips parting. You weren’t sober enough to care that he’d just gotten dumped, or that there was vodka soaking into your jeans, or even the uncomfortable way your legs were tucked up. Your only thought was his closeness, the stray hairs flopping over his eyes, the pink, plump lips only inches from yours.

“They say a change of scenery is good for moving on, too,” he murmured. Your stomach tumbled and you laughed, a hand coming up to rest on his chest.

“You know, I think I’ve heard that, too,” you said. You tipped your chin up to meet his lips, the gentlest brush, hesitant, giving him every opportunity to pull away.

But he didn’t. Instead, he tugged you closer, mouth pressed against yours, tasting of cheap beer and alcohol, but you didn’t care. He didn’t seem to care, either. He just kept kissing you, and kissing you, and kissing you, until that dirty bathroom at the back of a party felt like the only place in the world.


End file.
